#man-moth

[megalofauna]

CGkaiju #08 MAN-MOTH

[somstory]

“The Man-Moth,” Elizabeth Bishop

Here, above, cracks in the buildings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on, and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon. He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties, feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold, of a temperature impossible to record in thermometers.                     But when the Man-Moth pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface, the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings. He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection. He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.                     Up the façades, his shadow dragging like a photographer’s cloth behind him he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage to push his small head through that round clean opening and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light. (Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.) But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.                     Then he returns to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits, he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly. The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed, without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort. He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.                     Each night he must be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams. Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window, for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison, runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.                     If you catch him, hold up a flashlight to his eye. It’s all dark pupil, an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids one tear, his only possession, like the bee’s sting, slips. Slyly he palms it, and if you’re not paying attention he’ll swallow it. However, if you watch, he’ll hand it over, cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

[megalofauna]

One of the few photographic evidence of the megalofauna known as the "Man-Moth", West Virginia

[astronomifier]

[surroundedbycharacters]

The Man-Moth

“Each night he must

be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.

Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie

his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window,

for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,

runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease

he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep

his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.”

(from “The Man-Moth” by Elizabeth Bishop)

I have read bits of Elizabeth Bishop poetry before, but today I discovered her surrealist poem “The Man-Moth” for the first time. The poem tells of an almost-human man who lives underground and only occasionally comes to the surface—in the night, of course—and climbs the buildings in an attempt to reach the moon, which he assumes is a hole in the sky. He is fearful and timid of all around him, and though he fails to understand the world, he is also captured by an intense curiosity.

The poem is, more or less, an affirmation of imagination and the pure emotion that accompanies the solitude of an artist’s life. However, the man-moth also has an obsession. In the stanza quoted above, he is constantly tempted to touch the third rail of the subway, the electrical current that, upon touching, kills immediately. He even must “keep/ his hands in his pockets” to keep from touching it.

At what point does an individualistic curiosity flirt with death? Is this dark tendency a prerequisite for art (or at least, great art)? With how many great poets, writers, and artists become obsessed with death—even suicidal—I’m inclined to think it might be so. In fact, I don’t know how one can truly express a curiosity for the world without an intense curiosity of mortality.

Sure enough, the man-moth is a tortured soul, but his tears are “cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.”  

[ohthefond]

man-moth replied to your post“what was the moment that convinced you that Louis and Harry are together? That defining moment that stopped you thinking 'they could be' to 'yup, they're definitely together”

That was the moment for me as well! And the jealousy. Platonic best friends are not as possessive as they are. Sorry, I don't know why I'm chiming in here?? haa

Haha chime away. But yea, that moment was just so cute. Like clearly it's something they've talked about. All the little possessive moments are pretty telling too. And the small things we aren't really meant to see like the glances during certain parts of a song on stage or the little touches. It's all just pretty obvious to me now even though everything has been more subtle recently.

[ermjustnope]

Craig was listening to the podcasts again and this bit happened.

DIED. HAHAHAHAHAHAH.

The way he says "man-moths?"